


midnight into morning coffee

by andfinallywearehome



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, it refused to be written in anything other than 2nd person, the obligatory post-spectre fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andfinallywearehome/pseuds/andfinallywearehome
Summary: It’s been nearly three years to the day since his resignation and James Bond is climbing through your downstairs window.(or, snapshots in which bond comes back to mi6, and q is most definitely (not) not in love with him.)





	midnight into morning coffee

**Author's Note:**

> should i be working on something else? yes. did i write this anyway? you betcha.
> 
>  
> 
> title from the song I Like Me Better by lauv, and i own nothing recognisable.

_i._

It’s been nearly three years to the day since his resignation and James Bond is climbing through your downstairs window.

You’re pretty sure you weren’t actually _supposed_ to see him entering. You’re pretty sure he imagined this as some kind of grand gesture, a surprise that would catch you off guard - and it does, it definitely does. It just sort of loses its edge when you drift into the kitchen with your last mug of earl grey for the day, pursued by two very lively felines, only to catch the former double-oh seven in the act of making his big entrance, one leg still dangling out of the window.

A wake-up call, to say the least, the last thing you want after a thirty-six hour work day.

“What _the fuck_.”

“Nice to see you too, Q.” Bond, who has finally managed to get through the window, drops down lightly onto the kitchen floor with barely a sound. He looks visibly older than the last time you saw him, but the years have definitely been kind to him, and his eyes are still the same brilliant blue they’ve always been - and then you berate yourself for even noticing, because _now is not the time_ \--

“What the hell do you want?”

“I thought I’d check up on you,” Bond says, casual, like it’s three days between you instead of three years. 

“And you decided breaking and entering was the best way to do that, did you?”

“No time like the present, Q.” His lips curl into a smile around the letter and you kind of want to slap him for that. “And, well -” He gestures, and doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t need to. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

He needs somewhere to stay. He wants to stay _here_. _That’s_ why.

“Well, double - _Bond_.” Right. He’s not double-oh seven anymore. You need to start remembering that. “My home is not a hotel for you to just drop in to whenever you like.”

“I know that.” You wonder if you imagine the look that crosses his face, just for a moment, like he’s personally offended you would assume such things. As if you don’t have a very good reason to. “I was hoping for more of a favour. From one friend to another.”

_Friend?_

This is, _was_ , double-oh seven, the agent that used everything to his advantage and then tossed it aside when it stopped being so useful, and you can’t help feeling like you’re included in that sweeping statement. After everything that happened, does he still consider the two of you friends?

“I thought friends stayed in contact with each other,” you say, and your tone is more than a little bitter. “I thought _friends_ didn’t steal three million pound cars from each other and then drive them into the bottom of the bloody Tiber river - and, before you ask, _yes_ , I’m still angry about that.” Bond, who perhaps had been intending to ask, is quiet. “So, yes, you can stay here, because I’m not about to throw you out on your arse at -” you check your watch “- one in the morning. But this isn’t an invitation for you to just make yourself at home as you please. You get yourself a new flat as soon as possible and you stay _there_ , clear?”

Bond raises an eyebrow. “Crystal.”

There’s a lot of faffing about in the airing cupboard to get spare bedding. Bond perches on the arm of the couch, taking the pillow and blanket with a quiet _thank you, Q_ before you’re able to escape into your own room, collapsing down on top of the covers, closely followed by the cats that have now been kicked out of the living room. Usually, after such a long day, you’d be out as soon as your head hit the pillow, but you toss and turn for a good half an hour before you eventually doze off, because no matter how well you supposedly knew him before (not enough, apparently, never enough), here and now the former double-oh seven is a stranger in your home.

 

 

_ii._

God forbid you get used to having Bond around at home.

Somehow, through methods of persuasion you will never be able to understand or even hope to perfect, Bond wrangles his way back into a job at Six. You wonder what number he’s been assigned until the _other_ double-oh seven, the new one, strides into Q Branch and cheerfully reintroduces herself as the new double-oh eight, which must mean that Bond is back under his old code number.

You don’t know whether it angers you that Bond can just walk in and get everything he wants, or whether it’s a relief because Bond will always be double-oh seven to you. Calling him by any other number would just feel _wrong_.

Of course, it does mean that there is now no escaping him. He’s not allowed back out onto the field yet until he’s been officially declared fit for duty - he’s nearing fifty now, after all, a good few years over the standard retirement age of field agents - which means that he’s stuck in London for the time being with nothing to do except terrorise Q Branch whenever the fancy suits him, and it’s not like you can escape him at the end of the day either. He arrives with you and leaves with you, sharing your earbuds on the tube to and from work every day.

(Bond grumbles about your extensive collection of eighties music every morning for nearly an entire week until he realises that it’s either that or sitting in silence, and he soon stops. You catch him tapping his foot to some of them every now and then, as the train rattles between Waterloo and Westminster, but you never bring it up, or, at least, not yet. You'll let Bond keep his pride for a little while longer.)

The only moments of peace you get are when he decides that he simply can’t sit still any longer and disappears off into the heart of London, probably looking for the nearest pub, only to swing back through the kitchen window a few hours later, satisfied.

At least, you think, if he's adding to his long list of conquests, he's not bringing them back with him. You've reluctantly let Bond into your home, but that invitation doesn’t extend to his dates. 

 

_iii._

You’ve complaining about _finally_ having the house to yourself again for weeks, to the point where you’re sure Eve and Tanner are both sick of it, but it’s still a shock to the system by the time Bond gets cleared for field duty - which he does, nearly a month and a half after his return.

Despite the promise of peace and quiet, the house feels empty in the moments that Bond isn’t there; the worst case scenario has happened, because you _are_ used to him now, used to his pyjamas in a neat pile on the sofa and his shirts in the washing basket, used to him becoming one with the sofa, thumbing his way through a large volume of non-fiction or complaining to the bottom of his whiskey glass about how Mallory is probably giving him so much paperwork to do out of spite.

“I’m sure office politics have nothing to do with it, double-oh seven,” you say whenever he brings it up, even if a small part of you has secretly been hoping there’s a bit of truth to it.

Eve drops by the night after Bond returns from his first mission, bringing takeaway and some kind of expensive wine from Waitrose that makes you raise an eyebrow when you see the price tag. It’s a nice distraction from how pleased you are about how the sound of your own voice, mumbling to yourself, now no longer echoes in the lonely, empty house.

“No need to go all out on my behalf,” Bond comments dryly, but his cut lip twitches into a smile, and his remark doesn’t stop him from having a glass. Or three.

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” Eve says, and then throws you a wink over her shoulder. She’s been doing that a lot recently - looking between the two of you like she’s seeing something that you’re not. You get a sinking feeling that she’s about to start interrogating the first moment she can.

“So this is where you’ve come to hibernate,” you overhear her saying, during a moment when you’ve stepped out of the room, and you linger out in the hall to listen in. “It’s not exactly what I expected.”

There’s the sound of Bond pulling mugs from the kitchen cupboard. “It’s just until I find another flat.”

“Is that so?” Eve replies, and it almost sounds like she’s saying the words around a smile, and you have to bite back a groan because it’s bad enough that she sussed out your crush on Bond all those years ago, the crush that you are _most definitely over_ by now.

“It’s not like that,” you make a point of telling her later on, when Bond is the one out of earshot (because it’s _not_ like that, it never could be).

Eve just laughs fondly and tells you that there is no way in hell you can be _just friends_ with the man who climbed through your kitchen window, after years of being away, seemingly on a _whim_.

“Think about it,” she says. “Out of everyone, he came to you first.”

Maybe she’s got a point, but you don’t want to think about it. 

 

_iv._

You used to think James Bond was indestructible. He _is_ , for the most part - only not, it seems, against the common flu bug.

It’s starting to crawl its way around MI6, like it does pretty much every year. This time, however, it leaves Bond complaining through his blocked nose for nearly the entire day as he’s stranded on the sofa, buried under a mountain of blankets and orange lemsip, and doomed to watching (in his own words) trashy Netflix dramas that have him both rolling his eyes and also emotionally investing in by episode three. Several of the other double-ohs get wind of the situation pretty quickly, particularly double-oh six, who drops by around noon for the sole purpose of throwing good-natured jibes at his old friend.

Soon enough, they all join in, and you find yourself suddenly playing host to half of the people on the Six payroll on your day off. Perhaps a part of you should be concerned at the fact that so many people seem to _just know_ where you live, but you really should have come to expect this - you work in an industry full of spies and secret agents, people who make a living poking their noses in where they are not wanted.

Even Mallory drops by for a coffee later on in the evening, when he’s realised that the halls of MI6 are suspiciously quiet for a Thursday afternoon, due to the fact that none of the double-ohs are at their desks doing paperwork.

By the time you’re sitting on the floor with a mountain of discarded pillows and blankets around you and a warm mug of earl grey in your hands, your unexpected guests have all ended up spread across the living room. Bond is still on the sofa, in the centre of it all, and sandwiched in between double-oh six (who is devoting attention to your cats) and double-oh eight, who starts a loud debate with him about whether Pamela will end up with either Steven or George by the end of season two (Bond thinks George; she is very much in favour of Steven). For some reason, Bond and double-oh eight get on rather well, better than you would expect.

It just goes to show that you don’t really know James Bond at all. Perhaps you never truly will.

Madeleine Swann arrives on your doorstep too, a development you certainly aren't prepared for.

A couple of the double-ohs let out noises of anticipation for the fight that they are sure is about to go down, if Madeleine's curt _James_ and Bond's raspy _Doctor Swann_ is anything to go by, which leads to you hustling all of them out of the house with the help of both Eve and Mallory. You slip into your bedroom afterwards so you don't disturb the conversation going on in your living room. You want, in your heart of hearts, to make yourself another mug of earl grey, but you're not braving the kitchen when it's like this. All you can hear from your room are the low sounds of Madeleine speaking, her voice sharp and quick, and Bond's equally quick, if nasally, reply. 

After about forty five minutes of you trying to find an abandoned project to occupy your time with, there’s a light tap on the door and Bond enters, the duvet dragging along the carpet behind him. 

"Tea?" He says - wheezes, rather. "Madeleine's making some."

_Madeleine_. Not _Doctor Swann_ like it had been earlier. 

"You two worked it out, then," you say instead, and you can't hide the bitterness that leaks into your tone - although, _why_ you're so bitter, you don't really want to think about. 

Apparently, you're not as subtle as you hoped you are. Bond rolls his eyes.

"Not like that. Just because we're not getting back together doesn't mean we're not going to keep in touch."

"Oh," is all you have to say to that, like it was ever any of your business in the first place whether or not Bond got back together with his ex (you quickly scramble for justification in your mind - if they got back together, you would then have to formally state that they weren't allowed to do anything on the sofa that was used only for guests and semi-permanent resident Bond, a privilege that _still_ does not extend to his girlfriends).

Turns out, Madeleine Swann makes a good cup of tea, maybe the best you’ve ever had. You kind of have no choice after that but to say that she is welcome to come by any time, a gesture that she seems to appreciate. She’s going to stay in London for the time being, and having a support network in place would probably make her feel much more welcome. As long as she doesn’t start anything with Bond in your house, you can see yourself getting a pint with her after work every now and then.

"I didn't anticipate all this company when I saw you were sick this morning," you say, after she's finally gone back to her hotel room, sinking onto the sofa a safe distance from Bond.

“Don't worry.” Bond’s blue eyes, watery as they are, are alight with mischief. “I'm hoping I've breathed on them long enough to have given them my sickness."

You shake your head, but you can feel that there’s a smile tugging at your mouth.

(Roughly a week later, you head into work one morning to find that several members of the double-oh section are walking around with red noses and multiple packets of tissues in their pockets, and Bond spends the rest of the working day with a cheerfully smug grin on his face). 

 

_v._

Because the rest of MI6 is under the weather, Bond happens to be the only double-oh available, which means he’s immediately the one being sent out on a mission.

You sign off his equipment before he leaves - the standard gun and an early model for an exploding pen that has you gritting your teeth every time you think about it - and Bond saunters out of Q Branch with the prototype and a rare smile that makes you feel like you're flying and falling all at the same time.

You know what these feelings are, of course you do. But this isn't part of the arrangement. You aren't _supposed_ to be in love with him anymore. He's just supposed to find a new flat, get off your sofa, and go back to being your colleague, nothing more.

You don't want to be in love with him because when he inevitably moves out you're only going to feel the absence of him more. You had enough of that last time he left. 

 

_vi._

Instead of working late the night that Bond comes home, you decide to go for a night out with Eve and some of the others from personnel to defuse the stress of the past few days. You _should_ go back to the house and sleep off all those late nights you pulled, trying to make sure a certain double-oh makes it back to London in (relatively) one piece, but better judgement seems to pass you by tonight.

You’re a little more than buzzed by the time Bond arrives, a little bruised, and sporting a new cut on his eyebrow, but in reasonably good health by his standards. He even has the pen still tucked in the pocket of his suit, completely intact; you buy him a pint for that. He smiles again, the blue in his eyes warmer than you’ve seen it in a while - you have to buy yourself a pint as well after that, and you down it faster than you’ve ever downed any kind of alcohol because you want to convince yourself that the churning in your stomach is because of the copious amounts of beer and not because of _other_ feelings.

The dizziness behind your eyes is a welcome distraction, even when Bond has to make sure you don’t trip over your own feet on the way home.

It’s easier to take the tube to Canada Water, but you only make it three stops before you have to get off or else you’ll vomit all over the otherwise empty carriage. You hover over the station bin for a few minutes until the nausea, and three other trains, have passed, and then try to stand up straight without wobbling _too_ much. It doesn’t go very well.

"Whoops," you say, and then start giggling. Bond rolls his eyes. 

"Give me your oyster card."

You fumble in your pocket for it, passing it over, and then suddenly the ground isn’t under your feet anymore and you're up on Bond's back so that he’s carrying you. He groans a bit under the sudden weight, but then you’re off down the platform.

The escalators and ticket barriers are a bit of a struggle, but it's plain sailing after that; you spend most of the journey in some kind of dreamy state, caught between consciousness and sleeping with your chin resting on his shoulder, even when Bond tries to juggle both you and a house key.

“Is this the part where you sweep me off my feet?” You say, as he deposits you on the sofa (the _exact opposite_ of being swept off your feet) and lets you cuddle up to the pillow that’s usually his.

(You want curl up with it mostly because it smells like him, but you’re not about to start admitting that out loud.)

Bond doesn’t answer, but you’re pretty sure, before you pass out, that he’s smiling. 

 

_vii_.

“For the last time -” you say, dropping another cube of sugar into your mug, brimming with tea, because you’re getting pretty sick of lying to yourself and other people “- I don’t have a crush on double-oh seven anymore.”

Tanner raises an eyebrow. You’re not impressed. Eve sent him over to Q branch to covertly get information, you just know it.

“I’m not saying that you do,” he says slowly. “I’m just suggesting that perhaps there may not be as much animosity as you pretend there is.”

“You make it sound like I hate him.” You raise an eyebrow of your own to match his. “I don’t hate him.”

Tanner almost snorts with laughter, right there and then. “Trust me, Q, _nobody_ believes that you hate him.”

You might have set yourself up for that one.

 

_viii._

You’re not as smiley as usual when Bond comes to return his equipment to you that day.

You try to tell yourself that you don’t care when he frowns at you and can’t figure out what has caused this change.

 

_ix_.

Madeleine Swann comes to stay for the night, and because you, albeit a little begrudgingly, really like her, you do the gentlemanly thing of offering her your bed.

In the grand scheme of things, this is not the smartest decision you’ve ever made - in the absence of a guest room, you’re doomed to the living room with Bond, who insists on not taking the sofa because that would be unfair.

When Bond started caring about being unfair, you have no idea.

The debate ends with both of you sharing the cold living room floor with the cats, which is possibly even worse than you originally imagined. At least if you were sleeping anywhere else, you wouldn't have the itch of being so close to Bond's body heat and yet so achingly far away. Instead, you’re stuck trying to put as much space between the two of you as possible, which is tricky already since Bond is unable to comprehend what _personal space_ entails; whenever you shift over, he moves with you. 

"Christ, will you _stop_ it?" you snap after the sixth time, perhaps harsher than you meant to. 

"If you stop trying to avoid me."

_Shit._ "I'm not avoiding you."

"Hm." Bond hums, unconvinced. "Clearly. What's bothering you?"

"Nothing."

" _Q._ "

"Really. Nothing."

It’s really _not_ nothing, but Bond wouldn’t exactly take kindly to the words _I'm pretty sure I’m still in love with you_. Sure, there’s a small possibility he's fond of you after this amount of time, but it's not enough. You know that you're _more_ than fond of him and you aren't about to go telling him that.

“It’s nothing,” you say again, just to hammer the point home even more, and then clear your throat. “We’ve got more important things to worry about - like, when are you going to find a place, right?”

Bond’s eyes widen. At least he’s distracted. “Find a -”

“Yes. Wasn’t that the whole point of this? You, staying with me, and then finding a place of your own?”

Bond watches you for a moment in complete silence, before he closes his eyes, just for a moment. His expression is something cold and closed off when he reopens them. You start to think that perhaps this isn’t the right conversation to be having.

“I’ll start looking in the morning. Hopefully I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

You release the breath you’re holding.

“Alright,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else _to_ say, and then you roll over, away from him so you don’t have to see the look on his face.

(You tell yourself that this is a good thing, because if Bond is going to leave again - and he _will_ , because you’ve seen first hand that history repeats itself - then you want it over and done with.)

 

_x_.

“What have you done?”

You’re pretty sure, going by the tone, that it’s supposed to be a joke, but you still nearly drop your mug of tea.

“What?”

Madeleine Swann is leaning against the counter, blonde hair still damp from the shower, watching you with a raised eyebrow. “I bumped into James before he left this morning. I’ve never seen him in a more foul mood - something about having to find a place at such short notice?”

“Oh. Yes. We, er, we talked about it last night.”

“Ah.” She drums her fingers on the counter, almost in time to your heartbeat. “I thought you two were happy living together.”

It’s not phrased as a question. You don’t know how you feel about that.

“It doesn’t matter. This was never supposed to be a permanent arrangement.”

“Aren’t you going to be lonely without him?”

You pull a face. “Are you trying to psychoanalyse me in my own home?”

She smiles, ever so slightly. “Just answer the question, Q.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” _Most definitely_.

“So don’t you think he’s going to be lonely too?” The question hangs in the air, and you don’t, for the life of you, have an answer. All you can think of is the look on Bond’s face from the night before. Madeleine reaches across the counter to squeeze your hand in hers. “Just think about it.”

 

_xi._

You’re waiting for Bond when he eventually gets back, many hours later, even later than your day at Six.

“We need to talk,” you say as soon as the door opens. Bond sighs as he hangs his coat up on the peg by the door, in its usual spot.

“Before you get your hopes up, no, I haven’t found a place to live yet. Tanner can’t get the paperwork through until Tuesday -”

You cut him off, quick. “I don’t care about that.”

Bond stops, raises an eyebrow - unsurprisingly, since you seemed so adamant about it before. You have to keep talking before you try to back out of the conversation, before you lose sight of all that _thinking_ you’ve done after your chat with Doctor Swann.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

“What do I _want_?”

“Yes, Bond. What do you want?”

“Right now I want a decent glass of whiskey and a bit of peace and quiet. Judging by this conversation, I’m getting neither of those.”

“Please be serious about this. Tell me what you want. Or, even better than that, what _don’t_ you want? Just, tell me _something_. I need to know.”

There’s a long pause, and the silence feels like it aches. You wait with baited breath.

“I don’t want to move out,” Bond says finally, cautiously. “I like it here. I like your company. I like _you_.”

“I like you too,” you say, but Bond just shakes his head.

“No, that’s -” He cuts himself off with a sigh of frustration. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” It’s a genuine question, but it’s not needed; as soon as the words leave your mouth, you realise exactly what he means. “You - _Oh_.” #

Bond’s mouth is pulled into a tight line, grimacing. You wonder, for a moment, how long he’s been hanging onto this secret, the same way you’ve been hanging onto yours.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bond snorts, but he’s not laughing. “Would _you_ say anything?”

He might have a good point there.

“No,” you admit, toying with the edge of your sleeve. “I wouldn’t. Maybe I should. Maybe then I won’t spend all this time thinking I was the only one.”

Now it’s his turn to look surprised - and, perhaps, unless you’re imagining it, a little bit hopeful.

(You’re the one hoping that you’re not imagining it, because that hope looks good on him.)

"Bond," you say, perhaps as a precursor to something else, but neither of you will ever know what that thing is because Bond's mouth is suddenly pressed against yours and you're not really in much of a thinking mood after that. 

 

_xii_.

You end up falling asleep on the sofa next to Bond, drowning in one of his pyjama shirts, the television playing low in the background and the warm weight of Bond’s arm wrapped around your waist like a lifeline.

It might just be the best night of sleep you’ve had in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> i said 'hope' too many times in that last bit, lord give me strength. i hope this isn't terrible.


End file.
